The strangled room,
silently suffocated by smoke and
quietly acquiescent in the tar-stained sunlight,
receives no rest this morn.
The squint-eyed squad,
quietly confident, who choke on
silently soothing menthol and tip,
deceive the rest till dawn.
Tea-cups litter hearth and chair,
Cornflakes capture eyes that stare
And wish for sleep, for slumber pray.
Fools, who know it now, are stone-
And poker-faced, and watch, and moan,
As ash engulfs a groaning tray.
And still they play …
Copyright: Richard Fox 1967
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